When hearts are trumps | Page 8

due,?Just another ring to take?Unto my friend, the Jew.?That is what it is to be?Rejected, Miss, by you.
In her Pew.
She looked up from her pew?(Why she did, Heaven knows);?But I smiled; wouldn't you??'T was the right thing to do;?And, pshaw, nobody knew.
Then I tried hard to pose,?But a look of hers froze?All my blood. And I woo?Her in future, old chappie, when not in her pew.
The Suspicious Lover to the Star.
O silver star,?That seeth far,?Tell my poor heart what she is doing;?And ease my pain,?Who would again?Be at her side, and still be wooing.
Does she regret?The token set?By me upon her slender finger??Or in the dance?Do her eyes glance?At it sometimes,--and sometimes linger?
Be, silver star,?Particular,?And do not be afraid of hurting.?I know her well,?And truth to tell,?I fear my lady love is flirting.
A Slight Surprise.
Come, lovely Laura! strike the lyre,?And I will sing a song to thee?That will thy maiden heart inspire?With love, and love alone for me.
Why hesitate? Come, strike the lyre!?Down where the chord is minor D.?Of wooing thee I'll never tire.?Good gracious! Why do you strike me?
Past vs. Present.
Through all the days I courted her?My memory fondly floats,?When love and I exhorted her?To read, re-read my notes.
But now I love her ten times more,?And my soul fairly gloats?To think that my hard times are o'er,--?For now she pays my notes.
The Usual Way.
Three young maidens sat in a row,?With three grim dragons behind 'em;?And each of these maidens had a young beau,?And they all of 'em made 'em mind 'em.
These three maidens are married now;?In three brown-stone fronts you'll find 'em.?But ever since the very first row?They can none of 'em make 'em mind 'em.
A Difference in Style.
Sweet Phyllis sat upon a stile,?With love and me beside her,?Her red lips in a pouting smile.?A pout? Her eyes belied her.
My thoughts were merry as the day,--?And though the joke was shocking,--?I shouted quick, and turned away:?"A spider's on your stocking!"
The fun, of course, I did not see,?But heard an exclamation?That sounded much like "Gracious me!"?And guessed the consternation.
Then Phyllis sat upon the style?Of men who would deride her;?But she no longer sits the while?With love and me beside her.
Afraid.
Down the broad stairs,?Stranger to cares,?My love comes tripping and smiling and free;?The snows on her breast?Are a blush unconfessed.?I wonder what fate has in waiting for me?
My heart seems to throb?Like a broken-paced cob;?I fear I'm a coward in love, as they say.?She's commencing to laugh;?How the fellows will chaff.?By Jove, I'm not going to ask her to-day.
Ye Retort Exasperating.
"Sweete maide," ye lovesicke youthe remarked,?"Thou'rt fickle as my star!?By far ye worste I ever sparked,?You are! You really are!
Albeit yt my brains are nil,?I'm gallante as can be;?I'lle be to you whate'er you wille,?If you'lle be more to me."
"Faire youthe," ye maide replied, "I do?Not barter, as a rule,?But I'lle be sister untoe you,--?Be you my Aprille foole."
A Rhyming Reverie.
It was a dainty lady's glove;?A souvenir to rhyme with love.
It was the memory of a kiss,?So called to make it rhyme with bliss.
There was a month at Mt. Desert,?Synonymous and rhymes with flirt.
A pretty girl and lots of style,?Which rhymes with happy for a while.
There came a rival old and bold,?To make him rhyme with gold and sold.
A broken heart there had to be.?Alas, the rhyme just fitted me.
A Sure Winner.
Oh, treat me not with cold disdain,?My pretty maids of fashion;?Look upon the hearts you've slain,?And listen to my passion.
Though I am not so peerly proud?As men of higher station,?So handsome that the madding crowd?Collects in admiration;
And have, perhaps, too great a store?Of sandy hair and freckles,?I've mortgages and bonds galore,?And muchly many shekels.
You yet may journey league or mile?To wed, as you're aware.?Come, cease your longing for mere style,?And take A. MILLIONNAIRE.
Tantalization.
She stands beneath the mistletoe?As though she did not know it.?She looks quite unconcerned, you know,?And pretty, yes,--but, blow it,
I have to turn and walk away;?I'll have revenge anon.?She knows quite well, alack the day,?That my wife is looking on.
His Usual Fate.
All one season?Lost to reason,?Breathing sea air?By the beach, where?Young hearts mingle,?Love was playful?All the day full.?We were single.
Now with mournful?Looks and scornful?Turns he too us;?He is through us,?Worried, harried.?Love is sighing;?Love is dying.?We are married.
On Two Letters from Her.
I wrote her a letter. It took her quite two?To answer it after she'd read it.?My letter contained what perhaps even you?Have written,--at least, you have said it.
My letter contained the old tale of a heart?That longed to be linked to another;?And I told her to think on each separate part,?And ask the advice of her mother.
She apparently did, for the very next mail?Brought me a message of woe.?It took her two letters; they made me turn pale;?For they were the letters "N" "O".
A Serenade--en Deux Langues.
Sous le maple, mort de night,?Avec le lune beams shining through,?Ecoutez-moi, mon